


Manus Dei

by gersaint



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry VI - Shakespeare, Henry VI Part 2 - Shakespeare, Henry VI Part 3 - Shakespeare, Historical RPF
Genre: Religious Imagery, not exactly Shakespeare, the whole thing is a very dodgy metaphor for kingship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5727562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gersaint/pseuds/gersaint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry’s hands are the only part of him that have never known war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manus Dei

Henry has soft hands. Long fingers. His hands are often clasped – in prayer, in supplication, or just in that demure way of his. They are so pale that one can see all the veins snaking around underneath his skin: those blue veins, that carry within them the blood royal.

Henry’s hands are the only part of him that have never known war. His face has known it, and known it well. His eyes have seen bloated corpses lying in the fields. His nose has smelled the smoke of an hundred burning cities. His ears have heard shouts drowned out by cannonfire. His tongue has tasted blood in his own mouth, as he bit his lips to keep from cursing Almighty God for bringing about this fell war. But his hands – they have never touched the jeweled hilt of a dagger. Never grasped the wrist of a dying man. Never been curled into fists, except behind his back where no one can see. His hands have never been bloodied, except with his own blood during his sorry attempts at archery.

He _has_ held the reins of a horse. He has vowed to bring royal wrath upon the rebels – he has said it all – but he has done nothing.

~

Dearest Margaret has dainty hands. And yet they are exceedingly sharp and angular, like the thorns of two perfect roses. She has never gotten them dirty, or at least not directly. Her hands have never tightened around a traitor’s throat. Never swung a sword (for she is not Joan of Arc). Never put a crown of paper upon the brow of any rebellious duke. But her hands have held that duke’s head, while her mouth forced itself to smile.

Henry has worn armor; Margaret has not. She would never dream of wearing a man’s habit. Yet sometimes, in her wildest imaginings, she sees herself astride a black horse, in full armor, her long golden hair blowing behind her in the wind. Of course, she knows this is not in tune with reality – a knight never goes into battle without a helmet.

The Maid of Orléans rode a white horse and had short dark hair. Margaret is no maid – she is a matron – but who ever said that the savior of a kingdom cannot be a mother? In faith, a mother is more fitting than anyone. If she were to don armor, she would call herself the Tiger of Anjou.

~

Kings do not kneel, but Henry does. His knees are often bruised. When he kneels down to pray, he does not do it gently; rather, he throws himself onto the floor, even when he is not in a hurry, even when God does not demand a quick confession. There is always something to confess. The palms of Henry’s hands have seen the vaulted ceiling of many a chapel, many a cathedral. When he wanders the wilds of Scotland and of his own realm (though his realm knows it not), he slumps down upon the dirt and the grass and raises his hands to the sky. To the naked, bare, smiling sky. To the sky that is bluer than the Virgin Mary’s miraculous cloak. Henry has no need of miracles. The world is far too unsettled as it is.

Besides, he feels that he does not deserve such things as miracles. His tired shoulders do not deserve the touch of the hand of God. The grass is soft enough for him.


End file.
